The Sign of Fourth Wall
by wickedwanton
Summary: A storytelling experiment. Two Sherlocks and a writer going over details. Lots of "cameos". Deductions and observations. Guaranteed weirdness. Implied Sherlock/Molly.


**An experiment in storytelling. My thanks again to MizJoely who makes me "braver than we are", and of course to all the actors, writers and performers involved.**

Grimacing, I looked back over chapters eight and nine, checking them against chapter ten and the in-progress eleven. All five "w"s seem covered, but something is niggling at the back of my mind. What am I missing? Review sticky notes, index cards, the timeline spread across the corkboard with the signs reading "An orderly desk is a sign of a diseased mind" and "Mad, bad and dangerous to know." Nothing. Jokingly, I internally curse my mother for not getting me violin lessons. Okay, time to let the back of my mind speak to the front because something isn't resolving itself.

My couch is a monstrosity, a deep brown suede lump lacking any real shape of its own; but like most ugly furniture, it is amazingly comfortable. One of the reasons I chose it was that it allows me to practice a bizarre technique I learned a decade ago. Lucid dreaming is typically taught and used as a meditative tool for inner peace and harmony, and like many such tools, its effectiveness is in the eye of the wielder. It has never given me a religious experience, but it does have its uses.

Input has to be controlled. I mix a gin and tonic, put it on the coffee table alongside a freshly cut piece of lavender. My recent cravings for both will act as a centering device, but all other incoming sensory data has to point to the illusion I am trying to create. The television is on, the sound muted and I press "play" on DVD Season One; Disk One. Ambient light from the window will keep any flickering from being too distracting. I put on the CD of "Tanz Der Vampire"; the track "Ewigkeit" on repeat. I've used that piece frequently when I write Sherlock. It's a bolero, so the pacing is taut, and the interplay between the rock solid guitar melody and the interwoven elaborate violin work reminds me of our two principle characters. It's also sung in German, so the words won't guide me astray. I set an alarm on my cell phone, using a sound clip my friend Greenstreet grabbed me off of a YouTube video as a joke.

The hardest part in learning to lucid dream is to learn to not fully fall asleep. I have to go far enough that certain chemicals run riot, but not so far that I lose all control of what those chemicals are showing me. It can be a very fine line, even scary sometimes. It does have one safety net; that anything too disturbing, upsetting or exciting will pop me out like a champagne cork.

I sit down on the hideous couch, careful to keep my hips far enough forward that my spine and head are supported. I take a couple of sips of the gin and tonic, not looking for a buzz, just getting the flavor on my tongue and the scent in my nose. On the TV, the press conference lit up with the word "wrong" across the screen and I smile, thinking how my father would have loved this incarnation of the consulting detective. Doyle's books were some of the earliest he ever bought me and I know he was impressed with Cumberbatch because we spoke of the latest episode of "The Last Enemy" shortly before his death. He also thought Freeman playing Arthur Dent was one of the few good parts of the "Hitchhiker's Guide" movie.

I deliberately draw a bit more often on my vaping device, wanting to feel the nicotine hit in my blood before I go under. Damned thing looks enough like a sonic screwdriver that I'm surprised the Doctor hasn't wandered into one of these dream sessions yet. Non smokers have asked what attraction nicotine holds for me. Find four radios. Turn each of them to different stations, but at equal volume. That's how I perceive the world. Now, turn three of them down until they're just background noise; that's how I perceive the world in a nicotine haze. Sharper, clearer. You can also imagine the horror of quitting.

I let my eyes drift shut as our principle characters got in the cab to go to the crime scene. The only sense I haven't fed is touch, but I need that as a test. As I start to drift in Morpheus' arms, my hands rest palms up at my sides. Every few moments, I sent the signal for my index finger to touch my thumb. Each touch is progressively softer until the signal is swallowed up. The brain releases a chemical that paralyzes the body as sleep takes hold. Scientists think it's left over from our caveman days, intended to keep us from falling out of trees as we nap. Very close now.

The room is always the same; plain cream colored walls, dark sage carpet. Two leather Queen Anne chairs, each with a marble topped side table. A roaring fireplace to my left and a small waterfall to my right. I created the room with both mythological symbolism and minimum detail in mind. What is in the room, I need to know in minute detail, but I wanted the liberty of lots of free space for whatever appeared to play itself out.

I was sitting across the arms of my chair, head toward the fire and feet dangling over the side with the waterfall. Water tends to be emotion, unconscious, impulse, feeling, so I hoped to find what was making me uneasy. The acrid scent of pipe tobacco made me smile, told me who to expect in the chair opposite. The Sherlock in my mind wears two different forms and I let it choose which to use.

He's not yet in the chair; instead standing at the cluttered desk that only started appearing with his current form. His back was to me as I heard the thump of a leather case dropped and the drawer slid closed.

It had become a ritual between me and this form; a verbal opening salvo. "Which is it today, morphine or cocaine?" I asked, with a smile no actor playing John Watson would use at such a moment.

"It is cocaine," he turned; a smile that would make me want to guard my jugular if his eyes weren't flashing delight. "a seven percent solution. Would you care to try it?"

"No, thanks." I waved my vaporizer at him. "A point seven percent solution of nicotine in a base of vegetable glycerin gets me through the night just fine." A shadowy memory of the next line from the book floated up to me. "How sad is it that after all this time, John Watson is still a veteran of an Afghan campaign?"

He shrugged, flipping the ends of his jacket and taking his seat. "There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before. I thought you prided yourself on recognizing patterns, the cyclic nature of existence."

"Every cynic is a disappointed optimist, besides, I told you before, it isn't a true cycle." I straightened up, sitting properly. Something about the Victorian era Sherlock always made me feel more formal. "The cycle is more like a spiral, never returning to the exact same point. Characters evolve, society evolves, and even the planet evolves."

"Leading to endless 'rebooting'." He smirked, lighting his pipe. The last word of the sentence spoken as if it were in a foreign language.

"Well, I seem to remember your face in a film version of 'Pygmalion' that had a bunch of singing that wasn't in the original play." I reached for the brandy snifter that always appeared on my table when he was in this form.

"That would be assuming Rex Harrison could sing." He tossed his match into the fireplace as I tried to hide my laugh. "Assuming we have a limited time before that absurd alarm sounds; perhaps you could get to the point of this little visit?"

I took a slow sip, the odd feel of the burning in my throat muted by being only the memory of the flavor. I took a few moments to compare the actors' appearances. I had only ever viewed the character in my mind as Cumberbatch since I never wanted to write a Victorian Holmes. This created a problem when Sherlock lost his voice in my story "Thunder Echoes". I couldn't use this technique to check the story in my head because when I would go to this room, he was speechless, sitting in the chair, arms folded and furious. The only way I found around the problem was repeated viewing of Jeremy Brett in the same roll. Fortunately, I owned DVDs of both. Once I could completely visualize Sherlock as either, either one could sit in this room with me. "You've got your voice back; why Brett this time?"

That delightful sharp bark of laughter Brett used but I've never heard from Cumberbatch. "Dear lady, it's your mind; you tell me!"

I was reminded of a quote from one of the few people I've ever thought of as a guru; Douglas Adams. He once wrote "It was his subconscious which told him this – that infuriating part of a person's brain which never responds to interrogation, merely gives little meaningful nudges and then sits humming quietly to itself, saying nothing." The whole point of this technique was to give it a voice. Unfortunately, answers weren't automatic, especially when the character involved could be a bit of a prat.

"I have a question." He puffed a few times. "If you were having difficulties with Gatiss' Mycroft, why haven't you used mine?"

I grimaced. "They weren't really difficulties; I adore his Mycroft. He just reads a bit…dark for the story I wanted to tell. It works brilliantly as an update to the character; a darker Mycroft to go in a world of intrusive and not necessarily beneficial government, but I needed him a bit more traditional. Dragonaunt's version is so strong to me that its still Gatiss' form, but her interpretation laid over his performance in my mind. I just couldn't use Charles Grey. My fault; I was such a 'Rocky Horror' fan that I can only visualize him as The Criminologist."

"And yet you can visualize me as someone's lover." He sipped his own brandy. "It doesn't disturb your concept of canon?"

"Not in the slightest." I smiled. "Well, not the Victorian you. I'd have a hard time justifying that in my mind, but no hesitations for the more modern incarnation. Qualifications, but no hesitations."

He smiled from within the ring of smoke. "You've never believed I was a misogynist, then? Scholarly diatribes have been written on the subject."

"I've seen no evidence of it." I smiled. "Doyle himself may have been. Misogynistic, a man of his time or just a bit sloppy in his writing. I mean, he couldn't keep straight how many times Watson was married or to whom! No, Sherlock, your problem isn't with women; it's with stupidity and pointless manipulation."

"Explain." He began cleaning and repacking his pipe.

I took a deep breath. "Victorian era women couldn't vote, couldn't sue or even own property. No bank accounts, no birth control, sure as hell no higher education. If a woman possessed any intelligence at all, it could be freely beaten out of her by a father afraid it would ruin her marriage prospects, and no domestic violence laws would punish him. Women of any intelligence had to learn to camouflage what they were, manipulate to protect themselves. They were supposed to be pure, chaste, refined and modest. Exactly what would bore you to tears in seconds."

I downed the rest of my brandy, watching it swirl itself back to full as I set it down. "See, I've read interpretations of Doyle's Irene Adler as a weak willed woman who ran away for the foolish love of one man who forgave her past indiscretions, I just never bought that. I read her as being a libertine, a woman living in a man's world who was bright enough to figure out how to use the rules to achieve her own ends in a very naked and open fashion. I think you found that attractive, romantically or not."

"No shock then, seeing her as a dominatrix?" He smirked.

"Oddly enough, no. Seems like a logical progression to me. Naked and open, remember? Besides, it was worth it just for the term 'recreational scolding'! God, I loved that line!" I laughed. "Its one of those strange places where enduring characters and reality have to evolve together. Your attitude toward women didn't need to change, but society and women did change. Most women today are libertines according to the Victorian standard. Adler had to up her game just to maintain her character. Taking a lover is no longer enough, so she took naughtiness into kink and wasn't afraid to use her power when she got there. It's intriguing."

The gleam in his eye warned me. "Is that why you claim Candle is your Irene Adler?"

I leaned forward conspiratorially. "First off, Candle isn't a dominatrix, she's an independent professional fetish model; and second, she is in a lifestyle I've always been very curious about but had no desire to participate in. She is brilliant, funny and insightful and the fact that she is open and honest enough to tolerate a million questions from the ignorant writer does intrigue me immensely. Besides, she dubbed me The Redhead. Only fair for me to give her a title as well!"

"And you believe this societal change is enough that I'd take on a lover, questions of The Woman aside?" He sipped his own drink.

"I believe it's possible." I raised a hand in caution. "I get the whole monastic bit, really I do. It's an age old mythological tradition; the sacrifice made in exchange for a higher purpose; in this case intelligence. Sorry, but to me that is yielding to an outdated Victorian mind set. True, avoiding the distractions of physical lust, let alone those of rampant sentiment makes a great deal of sense, but there seems to be a glaring canon based exception to all that. Didn't you say you don't make exceptions because they disprove the rule?"

He glared at me and I couldn't resist chuckling. "You really always do miss something, don't you? Sex isn't the only physical lust." I made a point of letting my eyes stray off to the desk. "In Doyle's time, access to morphine and cocaine weren't legally restricted, but all the same dosing and purity problems existed then and now. Are you seriously going to claim the distractions and risks of an orgasm with a carefully selected partner in an age of disease and birth control are that much greater a risk?"

"Sentimental attachments…"

"Are something you've already formed!" I cut in. "Your list of friends is short, potential lovers would be even shorter, but don't try to claim your chastity is inevitable because even you aren't that good a liar!"

He puffed away for a few moments. "Astounding the cocaine remained in the canon. You'd have thought it would be the first to go."

"Well, technically, it isn't in the new canon yet. Illegal drug use, but they haven't been more specific. You could be mainlining Ritalin, for all I know. I feel comfortable staying with tradition from Doyle, but changing the substance doesn't seem out of the question." I stood, stretching my legs by walking around the back of my chair. I stopped at a sudden blast of unexpected music.

He grimaced for a moment, and then the sound turned down. "I thought you restricted your music selections. What is that?"

I could still vaguely hear "Ewigkeit" in the background, but the new song was clear. "'Oh! Darling' by the Beatles, off the "Abbey Road' album, 1969, McCartney vocals." I glared at him. "That isn't you?"

He shook his head, one eyebrow raised. "Even if it were, it's yours. Any associations?"

"No idea." The sound died away. "Wrong time period by both canons, no known association to either actor." I grimaced. "No place in 'Echoes" where I could refer to it. The only connection I can think of is the Beatles were British."

He resumed smoking. "Your Sebastian Moran seems to have been well received. How did you create him?"

"Out of whole cloth, mostly." I sat back down. "Doyle's version wasn't well fleshed out. I've always thought you and Moriarty were sort of fun house mirror reflections of each other, so I just pulled the same trick on John Watson; well, the modern Watson. Moriarty doesn't like getting his hands dirty, so someone else has to. John gets the groceries and handles the deposit checks; ergo a Moran who is all business and the bottom line, no matter who he has to roll over. He lacks Moriarty's style, but can make up for it in focus."

"It would have been far easier to have rendered him a simple villain." The embers in the pipe were reflected in his eyes.

"There is nothing in the world more boring than a simple villain! I learned that from you long before I moved on to other novels, then comic books, then television, then film! Give me a fallen hero every time! Someone who believes what they are doing is right and just and proper no matter the sacrifice!" I knew I was grinning like an idiot, but I didn't care.

"So where are you in 'Echoes'?" he sipped again.

"It's 'The Moment'; John knowing Sherlock is actually alive. General consensus seems to want a punch in the face, and I get the impulse, but I wanted something different. My favorite version so far is MizJoely's in 'Tables Turned'! I loved the audacity alone! It doesn't matter anyway; I know full well Moffat and company will blow the amateurs out of the water! Maybe even secure a Bafta or two." I stopped, my face falling. "What?"

Sherlock as a character has a certain smile; described by Doyle, given flesh by many actors over time. Cumberbatch does it brilliantly, but Brett was the master of it. It directly translates as "I figured it out and you're an idiot". He was smiling at me like that and the punch was sounding better all the time.

"All right, smartass." I held out my hand, feeling the familiar rectangle beginning to form. I glanced at it after a few seconds, and then made a correction with a fingertip pressed to the red and white package. I still smoked cigarettes when I was in England and remembered that the soft packs that were more familiar to me were almost impossible to find there. It obliged and became a hard box. I tossed it very high, watching as it arced and then fell. "If I have to get walked through this, let's get away from the hansom cab era."

Long fingers caught the box in mid-air and began to tear off the cellophane. I could never see it as one form translated to the other, but it was always interesting to me in those first few seconds to note the similarities and differences between the two actors. Long, tall and lean were apt descriptions of both, yet Brett's hand movements always read like he'd had too much caffeine. I've spent most of my life in art studios and Cumberbatch's hands move like a sculptor's. Brett's eyes were blue to grey and could get far more piercing than Cumberbatch's blue to green. Brett swung from perpetual motion to being still as stone in a split second, while Cumberbatch gives the impression that much is going on beneath the surface, with only a fraction visible. You can (and I have) argue which physically embodies Sherlock better, but for me, both work appropriately enough as slightly different aspects of the same continuous character.

He took a long slow drag. "Why does the desk disappear? I have a desk on the series." He seemed almost scandalized.

"Yeah, I know, but I think it's a reflection of modern technology. As long as you've got your cell…sorry, your mobile on you, you don't need all the additional paperwork." I sighed. I'm not bilingual, but there ought to be a term for needing to keep two versions of the same language in one mind. A British friend once told me that his cat was going potty on the couch and was shocked that I wanted him to stop her. British: going potty = slightly insane. American: going potty = urinating. Oscar Wilde, as always, was right!

He flicked ash into the fireplace. "Have you got it yet or do we need to go through the tedious step by step?"

I gave him a quick glare. "You know, its comments like that that fool people into thinking you're boasting and bragging and not just an oblivious twit!" I kept going despite his answering scowl. "You're the six year old at every family reunion who thinks everyone needs to be informed that Aunt Agatha is an alcoholic! A factual observation crosses your mind and falls right out of your mouth without thought of consequence!"

"Let's stay in your canon for this one; you think the frailty of genius is that it needs an audience, right?" I didn't give him pause to cut in. "Watson's blog provides that audience and you loathe it! You aren't looking for applause out of it; just cases! It's not that you think you're that smart; you just can't figure out why the rest of us can't keep up!"

"So prove you're keeping up! Have you got it yet?"

"Yeah, I've got it! River Song." Pardon my Doctor Who reference. "Spoilers. I've done everything I can to avoid seeing any spoilers for season three. Hell, I've not even really reviewed theories with friends. I'm trying to write "Echoes" on target with canon but still not stray any where near what may show up. John finding out Sherlock is alive is inevitable, so I'm stuck writing what I've tried to avoid!" I slammed my head back into the headrest. "Damn it! I knew I should have stayed away from Reichenbach!"

"Well, that makes four of us." He smirked at me. "What are you going to do when the episodes air?"

"Besides watch?" I laughed. "Guess I'll have to have any ongoing fics completed beforehand and write for something else until I've seen all three. Take a little time after to sort out canon. I've been playing with the idea of a Who fic anyway."

"Anything you're hoping to see?" He tossed the rest of the cigarette away.

"Well," I lean in, looking around like I'm afraid to be seen and dropping my voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm dying to find out that the reason Anthea barely looks up from her phone is that she's playing Fruit Ninja with David Cameron!" That got the smile I was looking for!

"You're writing fiction, not performing an autopsy. A little fudging the canon will be forgiven as long as a story is a good one. Besides, all that dark chocolate you've been dosing yourself with isn't canon; you got that from Nocturnias." He lit another cigarette.

I giggled. "I still want to come up with a cookie recipe to tease MorbidbyDefault for her ginger midgets!"

He glanced around. "I suppose you'll try bringing the Doctor here. Which one? Eccleston, Tennant, Smith?"

"If I ever have reason to cross paths, Grand Moff At would think I was targeting him! Besides MizJoely would be heartbroken if I didn't at least try for Davidson!" I began to hear the slight buzzing my phone makes before the alarm goes off.

His face went to the same furious look he had when his voice wouldn't work. "You didn't!"

I bit my lip. I had forgotten I changed my alarm since I last went to this room.

"Bad enough that you use that line from the pool with Moriarty every time you get a text email or review…"

"Hey, you sounded like Marvin! It's cute!" I was trying not to giggle. "Besides, Greenstreet got it for me! He's had to get me up before and says I'm like a rabid wolverine on fire until I get my coffee!"

My alarm went off, a familiar voice echoing in my ears as my eyes snapped open.

"You should have let me sleep!"


End file.
